


Darkest Hour of the Night

by LukeVonCastiel



Category: Berserk
Genre: Dark, Gen, Guilt, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LukeVonCastiel/pseuds/LukeVonCastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late at night Griffith writes, Griffith thinks, and Griffith sees things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkest Hour of the Night

At the darkest hour of the night, Griffith sat over his desk, his form and movements appearing as the definition of grace, pale fingers gripping a quill as it slid smoothly over the surface of the parchment beneath it. Light flickered from both the fireplace and a single candle on his desk, causing shadows to dance along the walls. Griffith ignored the unsettling shapes, his eyes focused entirely on his work.

More letters formed on the parchment beneath his quill, elegant shapes designed to be both pleasing to the eye and informative, though Griffith himself doubted the latter. If anything, he found them senselessly difficult to read. It baffled him that those of the noble court given the chance to learn to write would use such a text, both painful on the wrist and the eyes. The plainer text of the merchant class made much more sense, but yet again, they made much more sense as a class altogether.

With a slight smirk, Griffith carefully dipped the nib of the quill in his inkwell and then returned it back to the parchment’s surface, signing his name with a flourish. Then he placed the quill on his desk and read over the document. A flowery response to a flowery invitation, a duke’s ball in a fortnight’s time. It would flatter the duke, who in turn would speak highly of Griffith’s own exploits and battles. Though heads always turned when Griffith entered a room, whether it be in battle council or the halls of a courtier’s palace, now a name and deeds would follow. All would know of him, for how else was he to climb the ranks to the position of king if no one knew his name?

A frown graced his lips as he continued to look over the letter. All these noblemen and women, enchanted by his speech and manner, his beauty and his battle prowess. Yet he felt so little for them. They watched from their balconies as he rode to battle, amidst the swords and shields of his men, those truly dedicated to him. Those who would die at his side, who slept in the tents on the dirt and grass, who crawled through the blood and gore of battle and raised their tankards high when it was over. He knew all their names and faces, but unlike the nobles, he did not simply know them for the sake of manners.

No, he had to know them for they were his. His responsibility. Those dreamless men who held up their swords him, they were his. The followed him of their own will, yet their lives and steel were his. At the end of each battle at their side he spoke their names, wandered the victory boasting and brawls and named them all, and the dead.

Griffith lurched forward suddenly, pupils narrowed to a point as he let out a heaving gasp. He knocked both quill and parchment from the desk as his fingers scrabbled for something to hold onto, digging into the wood. The flickering shadows suddenly grew, became the forms of boys and men in battle. The shadows were cut down with each crackle and flare of flame, sliced into by the fires of battle. Griffith’s throat burned as the shadows changed, the scene of a staircase made of corpses burning into his eyes, into his mind.

Deep in his mind a voice whispered, its cruel tongue burning his ears and his heart. It is your fault, you killed them, it was you. Some had dreams of their own, some had hopes of their own. Killer killer killer killer, murderer murderer murderer murderer. They were your responsibility!

Griffith suddenly jumped up from his chair, the wooden seat clattering across the floor as he stumbled backwards. Were they his responsibility? Or did they choose their own fate when they followed him? Was he innocent or a slayer in his own right, leading men to die? Not just any men, but his men, his swords and shields. Were his dreams at fault? His ambitions? Who was to blame?

The fire and the hearth burnt wildly behind him as he stood staring at the shadow on the wall before him, a monstrous shadow of himself. Yet around him was the glow of the fire, and suddenly, he could not tell if it were a demon or an angel. His conflicted mind shouted and snarled as it charged him as guilty and released him as innocent. The men in his mind cheered his name in triumph and cursed it in defeat. The shadow nobles observing both appeared so different and yet the same as him, as uncaring and cold and yet as cunning and ruthless as he could be when he was driven to such things.

Before him, he could see the dark and light of a hawk, encompassing the room, encompassing the world. The shouts and screaming of his mind and the dead shut out all the natural world, and then suddenly Griffith fell to the floor, unconscious.

…

When he awoke, the fire had dyed down to a light glow, the candle was naught more than a puddle of wax, and his room was in shambles. Slowly, he stood, testing his strength. His legs did not shake, his hands did not waver, and so he set about clearing and cleaning his room in an orderly fashion. When his chair once again stood, and his quill and parchment once again decorated the surface of his desk, he retrieved his response to the duke’s invitation and placed it in a nearby envelope, sealing it with wax. Then he undressed and slid into bed, as if what had just occurred was simply part of his daily routine

The shadows on the wall watched, knowing that indeed it was.


End file.
